“How could I not? If I am forced to share you, it is my greatest desire to find the least oppressive circumstances. A husband who is absent for years at a time is a perfect solution. A God-given solution. I am grateful for it, Colombina.”
“But Lorenzo, how will I bear that one night?”
“We will get your husband raging drunk, which I dare say is not hard to do, and it will be over quickly. If we’re very successful, it may not happen at all. I did try to send Niccolò off to sea first and marry you by proxy, but he would not concede. At least he is not completely blind. The best I could do was to ship him off the following day. I’m sorry, love, but there is no way around it.”
“Then you best get me very drunk too.”
He kissed her on the forehead. “Do you not think that this kills me? I am brokering the marriage of the woman I love to another man. I would rather rip out my own teeth. It is perhaps the most heinous task I have ever carried out, but it must be done, for both of us. We should be grateful that God gave us this option, put the one man in our path who would both please your family and get out of the way, all in one package. And he is not a hunchback or a villain, merely a braggart. And some of the women envy you, I am told. They believe he is quite handsome and dashing.”
“The women of Florence do not envy me over Niccolò Ardinghelli.” Lucrezia ran a finger over his flattened nose before leaning up to kiss it. “They envy me over you.”
“Nonsense. I will never be as pretty as Niccolò, with his perfect nose.”
“Stop it. You can’t possibly be jealous of him. Besides, you are the most beautiful man in the world.”
“As long as you think so, I don’t care about anyone else.”
Lorenzo paused for a moment before asking her, with sincere curiosity, “Does everyone know, then? About us? Really?”
Lucrezia gasped at him, incredulous. “Lorenzo, please. For such a brilliant man you sometimes miss the most obvious things. The whole city knows about us. Except perhaps for poor Niccolò!”
They both laughed at this, but Lorenzo’s mind was on to something else.
“That could be a good thing, Colombina.”
“Why?”
It was his turn to tease her. “For such a brilliant woman, you sometimes miss the most obvious things!”
He grew serious as he looked out the window again, this time pointedly in the direction of Santa Trinità.
“Because if people think you and I meet secretly only because we are lovers, they will not be looking at our more dangerous endeavors together.”
Antica Torre, Florence
present day
“WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS?” Petra Gianfigliazza, known for her cool patience, was trying not to lose her temper with the arrogant beauty who confronted her. “What is it you want, Vittoria?”
“I want Bérenger,” Vittoria replied. “I always have. He is my soul mate and I have loved him since I was a girl. You know that.”
“No, I don’t.” Petra shook her head. “I don’t believe it for a second. I have known you too long and too well. You are not in love with him. You are not in love with anything except your career and your power. That’s why Destino stopped teaching you.”
Vittoria spat at her. “I am the one who brought Bérenger to Destino’s attention, the reason he discovered his precious Poet Prince and that wretched redhead in the first place. And this is how he thanks me.”
“What is it you are really after, Vittoria? You will save us both time and trouble by being honest with me.”
“Dante is Bérenger’s son and he is a Poet Prince,” she hissed. “I want my son to have his father’s name, legitimately. He is the Second Prince, Petra. The Second Prince. Do you understand what that means? For all of us? For the world?”
Petra nodded, taking it all in. “I understand that you want Bérenger to marry you.”
“It is his duty as Dante’s father and as the heir to the prophecy. And I want my son to be recognized for who and what he is by Destino.”
“Why do you care about whether or not Destino recognizes him?”
“Because Dante is the true heir to the power of the Order. The artifacts should be his when Destino dies.”
The artifacts. So that was the real prize that Vittoria was after.
Petra asked the next question without even attempting to keep the incredulous tone out of her voice. “You think Destino will give you
the Libro Rosso?”
“It belongs in the hands of the reigning Poet Prince,” Vittoria replied. “It is the law of the Order.”
Petra considered this for a moment. Vittoria may have been delusional, but she wasn’t stupid. She countered, “The law of the Order is that Destino makes the law of the Order. That said, Bérenger is the reigning Poet Prince. By your logic, he should have the Libro
Rosso.”
“But Dante will be his legitimate heir. Everything should go to Dante as both Bérenger’s son and as the first child in two thousand years to fulfill the prophecy completely. Perfectly.”
“Why? Why do you want this so badly that you are willing to risk so much to attain it?”
“Why?” Vittoria was the one who was now incredulous. “Have you lost your wits, Petra? Dante will then be the highest-ranking blood prince in Europe.”
“So what? It’s the twenty-first century. There is no monarchy in Europe anymore.”
“That’s because there has been no one worthy to restore the monarchy. Don’t you see? My Dante changes all of that. We can concentrate the power of all the noble bloodline families behind Dante: Hapsburg, Buondelmonti, Sinclair. With our unified fortunes and power combined within this one perfect child, my child, we can rule Europe.”
Petra was stunned. She had not expected this. For hundreds of years, secret societies had been breeding grounds for half-baked plots to restore monarchy in Europe. The strategy always involved proving that some heir of one of the bloodline families represented a “lost king” who would unify Europe as a superpower. But Vittoria’s scenario, while far-fetched, had some chilling possibilities. While Dante might not ever sit on a recognized throne, he could potentially unite billions of dollars and great power under one agenda, but what would that agenda be? And who would control it? And while she had not mentioned the messianic aspect of this master plan for her son, it was implied in her speech. Petra was chilled to the bone as she considered that Vittoria was likely not smart enough to have concocted this herself. How big was this conspiracy? How much wealth and power was behind this terrible idea?
“Vittoria . . .” Trying a new tactic, Petra modulated her voice to that of mentor. “Help me understand what it is you want to do here. The Order isn’t a political organization, it is a spiritual one. Temporal power is not our agenda.”
The light of fanaticism grew in Vittoria’s eyes as she reacted. “Destroying the Church is our agenda, and we can do that if we are unified. We can return the teachings of the Libro Rosso to the light, and to Europe once and for all. We can defeat the lies that have ruled in Rome for too long. It is a blessed mission, sister.” Vittoria addressed Petra intentionally using the sibling definitions of the Order. “We can all make this happen together—you and me, Bérenger and Destino, and Dante. Let us bring about this new era of rebirth. The time returns. Let’s finish what Lorenzo started. That is the mission.”
Petra shook her head sadly. How had Vittoria become so misguided? “Destroying the Church has never been our agenda. Living in peace with other belief systems is what we aspire to, and what we have always tried to achieve. That is the Way of Love.”
Vittoria growled her frustration. “You are the Mistress of the Hieros-Gamos, the leader of a dying tradition, possibly the most powerful tradition in human history. Are you going to sit back and let it die, Petra? Because I say we stand up for it and let it live. We restore the true teachings with all the power and money of Europe behind them. Bérenger and I rule together, with Dante as our heir, protecting the Order as our highes
t priority. If Dante is ultimately in possession of the Libro Rosso, as well as the—” Vittoria stopped herself before completing the sentence, but Petra, knowing her too well, understood.
“In possession of the Libro Rosso as well as the what, Vittoria? The spear?”
Vittoria was in too deep to deny anything now. She snapped. “Of course. The Spear of Destiny is the ultimate weapon of power on Earth. He who wields the true spear cannot be defeated. We need it to ensure our victory. Dante needs it.”
Petra took a deep breath and answered carefully. “The spear is not meant to be used as a weapon of war or pain ever again. To do so would be a tremendous mistake and tragedy. Destino will never part with the authentic spear, at least not until the day he selects an heir who is worthy of its power.”
Petra’s words were falling on deaf ears. Vittoria turned to storm out of the apartment in frustration. She stopped at the door to make her final point. “Destino needs Dante. The Order needs Dante. He is that heir. You cannot deny his birth chart or what he is. The sooner you and Destino understand that, the easier this will be on everybody.”
Petra, for all her grace and diplomacy, had not become a leader in the Order through a lack of spine. She shot back, enunciating each word clearly and with authority. “Remember who I am, Vittoria, as you said it yourself. I am the Mistress of the Hieros-Gamos. It is my mission and my destiny to teach the power of love and to recognize twin souls. Bérenger and Maureen are twins. They belong together. And what God has put together, let no man separate. That is the law that rules above any other.”
Vittoria slammed the door in response; Petra considered the situation as she did so. Destino had ceased to teach Vittoria because she had always been fixated on power and never on love. She was the product of a family that had lost the true meaning of the Order along the tumultuous path of history. This perverted strategy she was presenting made that clear. Fanaticism on any level was a dangerous thing.
And yet there was the question of the child. Dante Buondelmonti Sinclair was, indeed, a Poet Prince, and as such his presence and destiny could not be ignored by anyone in the Order. Whether or not he was the legendary Second Prince was still to be confirmed.
But what if he was? What then?
Florence
spring 1469
“SHE IS THE closest thing to royalty that exists in Rome, this girl from the Orsini family. They have the greatest number of cardinals in their line, and several popes. They are rich and influential, and will bring a prestige and influence to the Medici we have never had before.”
Lucrezia de’ Medici knew that Lorenzo would hate this discussion, as did she, but it had to happen. She had just returned from Rome, where she had gone in search of an appropriate bride for Lorenzo. That the Medici were reaching outside Florence was controversial; that they were going to Rome to find Lorenzo a wife was unheard-of.
Lucrezia, who had become a true Medici in her years of marriage, continued. “She is not beautiful, but she is not ugly either. And she is not Florentine, so she is neither cultured nor terribly merry in her demeanor.”
“Does this get worse, Mother? Because if it does, let me go drinking with Sandro, then come back to hear the rest of it when I am appropriately numb.”
“Stop it. Think of this as Order business. That’s all it is, Lorenzo. Business. A bride from the most noble family near the papacy is the next step for you. For all of us, and for what we wish to create. The girl is a broodmare. Her purpose is to give you children with Roman blood who will help us to secure our place in the papal circle. With the help of the Orsini family, we shall get our Giuliano into the center of that circle and establish a Medici cardinal. If this Orsini girl breeds well, your sons will follow the trail Giuliano will blaze to Rome. Keep your eye on the outcome, my prince.”
Lucrezia grabbed her elder son by the shoulders and kissed him soundly on both cheeks. She did not release him as she made her point. “Understand this, Lorenzo. We are after nothing less than a Medici pope. Your own father is too ill to give you guidance and emphasize our strategy. It falls on my shoulders now as the Medici matriarch to carry out the grand plan, until you step into your grandfather’s shoes and rule Florence.
“A Medici pope, Lorenzo. Imagine it. It will give the Order access to all that is held in secret in Rome, all that has been kept from us that is rightfully ours. It may even give us the power to change the Catholic Church. And you shall be the patriarch that brings this to pass.”
Lorenzo was listening in a new way. An arranged marriage had been inevitable, so what did it matter whom he married? Anyone who was not Colombina would be abhorrent to him, so it might as well be a woman who could further the ambitions of his family and his
Order.
He responded calmly. “This girl whom you and father have chosen is fine with me, Mother. Do whatever has to be done to make it official. But know this: I will not participate in a formal vow-taking ceremony with her. I will never stand before God and proclaim devotion or loyalty to any woman who is not Colombina. Marry us by proxy. Throw whatever party or spectacle you must in order to appease this Roman family and show them honor, just do not force me to take vows. Tell the Orsini that I am too busy with affairs of state to participate in a vow ceremony, particularly now that Father is so terribly ill. Of course they will understand.”
Madonna Lucrezia knew better than to push Lorenzo too far. He had accepted their choice for his bride, and that had been the objective of this discussion. She had accomplished what she needed for the further glory of the Medici dynasty.
“Of course they will understand, my son. I will make the arrangements immediately.”
Lorenzo went in search of Angelo the next morning after a long and sleepless night. Sandro was with Verrocchio this week, working hard on a number of important commissions, so Angelo was his port for this storm. He and the little poet from Montepulciano had become immediate and inseparable friends. Angelo was as sweet as he was smart, as loyal as he was shy. He was utterly devoted to Lorenzo. And in Angelo, Lorenzo had more than just a trusted new confidant; he had a writing partner, a poet of such talent and discernment that he pushed Lorenzo’s own writing to new levels.
It was the second great sadness of Lorenzo’s life that he did not have time to pursue his writing. He was remarkably gifted, and when his poems were entered into the highly competitive Florentine writing competitions, he always won some kind of mention. Lorenzo entered these contests under assumed names so that the organizers would not simply reward him medals because he was a Medici. He wanted to have his poetry judged on its own merits. Each time that it was, the result was the same; he was a poet of exceptional gifts.
But when Angelo Ambrogini came to Florence, there was no one who could best him for the perfect turn of phrase or most lyrical use of language. Lorenzo wasn’t the least bit jealous—far from it. He had been the one to cultivate his friend’s abilities and support him as he continued to write. Angelo’s skills as a poet had become so renowned, so quickly, that he was now known by a new name throughout Florence. It was a tradition to honor the most gifted artists with a professional name, which consisted of their given names followed by a reference to their hometown. Thus was born the poetic name Angelo Poliziano, which meant “Angelo from Montepulciano.”
Lorenzo found Angelo in the studiolo he had prepared for him in the palazzo on Via Largo, working on a Greek translation.
“Angelo, I am tormented. I am to be wed to a homely Roman girl who is apparently completely without culture. What am I to do?”
Angelo smiled at him. “Use your misery in your poetry, as all great writers have in the past.”
“I tried. I was awake all night in the effort, but I cannot judge it for myself to know if it is worthy or just self-indulgent.”
“This is the beauty of the gift we have been given, Lorenzo, the purpose of our art—to express emotion through poetry. Even if it isn’t worthy and you have to throw it out, at least it served a purpose in get
ting you through the night. And besides, how dull would it be if the only reason we created poetry was to celebrate springtime and flowers and rainbows? All those things are lovely, but they are not art unless they have a contrast. Let this new wife from Rome provide you with some contrast. What is her name?”
Lorenzo stopped for a moment, thinking. He shook his head and replied, “I don’t know. I didn’t ask.” Lorenzo groaned aloud. “I do not care. Angelo, I cannot write poetry about a woman because she does not inspire me.”
Angelo was brilliant, but he was young and had never been in love. Clearly. Lorenzo continued, “I can only write about someone who does inspire me. And while thinking of this tormented mess I find myself in, I realize that it will hurt Colombina even more to know that I am getting married. So I chose to write a poem to her and about her, so that she would always know my true feelings no matter what circumstances fate put upon us. I shall read it to her to soften the blow of the terrible news. Will you look at it and tell me what you think?”
“Of course,” Angelo nodded, then read Lorenzo’s latest offering. He was quiet for a moment, causing Lorenzo to panic with insecurity.
“You hate it?”
“No, Lorenzo. It is stunning. Beautiful. I was just thinking that if this is how you write when you are miserable, then apparently God knew exactly what he was doing by delivering an unpleasant wife to you!”
Regarding Lorenzo’s banner.
The Medici chose to produce a spectacle in honor of the marriage of Lorenzo and Clarice Orsini that would be so elaborate, so memorable, that the people of Florence would be talking about it into the next century. Lorenzo wanted nothing to do with it, of course. He was miserable over the entire idea of arranged marriage, and it was my duty as his brother to cheer him from the dark hole he threatened to fall into. We devised secret ways to incorporate our heresies into the tournament as a means of amusing ourselves.
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